


His Blood; My Blood

by Crazythatcounts



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazythatcounts/pseuds/Crazythatcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 8th, 1980. John Lennon gets out of the car. But he doesn't die. </p><p>Written as an introspective for John, one of my first attempts. I am so sorry about all the italics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Blood; My Blood

_It shouldn’t have happened like this._

 

It was a good night, for December. John remembered that the night was quiet, almost surreal for the month it was. He and Paul were heading back to his apartment in New York after having spent the evening together. Sure, it wasn’t how it used to be, but it was better than it had been for a while. They had talked about kids, about wives, about how things had been. It was a good night, for December.

_I could have made things different._

 

They’d stopped in front of his apartment. He was going to just get out and go home, like he always would. But Paul was already opening his door, insisting John not get out in the street, that he had to get out on the curb, that he wouldn’t let John get hit by a car, you know how New York is…

 

“John Lennon?”

 

Paul looked up, and so did John. And then there were gunshots. Seven of them. Loud and clear and ringing in John’s ears like the squeal of a microphone too close to the amp, echoing around and around, making his head ring with the sound, spinning, spinning…

 

Paul gasped. The sound was so much louder than anything else. John couldn’t remember what sounds he made, what his voice did, anything else. He remembered seeing Paul, outside the car, collapsing backwards, falling, in slow motion, one hand on his chest, the other reaching out for something to catch him, to balance, to stop.

 

“PAUL!”

 

_I could have stopped him. I should have stopped him._

 

====

 

“Mr. Lennon?” The doctor’s voice was calming. John didn’t look up. He had blood on his hands. Paul’s blood. All over his hands, his shirt, his coat, his face. Paul’s blood.

 

_“John…” Paul called my name, reaching up to me, taking my hand. I stroked Paul’s hair, grasping that hand, trying not to look at his chest, with the blood, oh the blood… “John, I’m…” Paul’s breath hitched in his throat._

“Mr. Lennon.” The doctor said again, putting a hand on John’s shoulder. John glanced up, eyes wide, hair stringy, blood on his face, lips parted slightly, in shock.

 

_“You’ll be okay, Macca, you’ll be okay.” I said. I felt my chest tighten as his breath caught in his throat again._

_“John.” He swallowed thickly.”I have to… I have to tell you…” He couldn’t breathe._

“How is he?” John was desperate for a little news. For anything. Just to know Paul was alright.

 

_“You can tell me later, Paul.”_

_“I have to tell you.” Paul gasped in a deep breath. The paramedics were here. They were taking him away. “I…. I love you, John.”_

““Mr. Lennon, I’m so sorry.” The doctor’s voice was sympathetic. “I’m so sorry.”

 

_“I love you, John.”_

“He’s gone.”

 

~*~

 

“John?” John looked up. How many times he’d heard his name that night, he couldn’t remember. Ringo and George were there with him. They were at Abby Road now. The body was gone from the hospital.

 

_“Paul…” I held his head in my hands. His broken body splayed across my lap, his blood still on me, still on his face from where I touched him, limp and dead and cold. So cold._

“We’re going to go find Linda, John. She doesn’t know.” Ringo was speaking softly, hand on John’s shoulder. John stared at his hands, where Paul’s head once was – should have been – but said nothing in reply. “We’ll be back in an hour or so. If you need us, give us a ring, alright?”

 

_I was in the hospital bed with him. He wasn’t with me._

 

John didn’t remember saying anything to them before they left. It was silent in the Studio.

 

_“Mr. Lennon.” The doctor urged me to leave for the fourth time. They had to take the body, they said. They had to take the body._

“God dammit, Paul!” John suddenly lashed out at nothing, at no one, standing, his arm swinging out blindly at nothing, striking a microphone and knocking it asunder. His hair stuck to his cheeks, from where the tears made his face slick and wet. “God dammit!” He kicked over the piano stool, letting it clatter to the ground. “It was _me!_ They wanted to fucking kill _me!”_

_They carted him away, a blanket on his face. A blanket on that beautiful baby face of his._

“We were _alright_ for once and then…” John stopped, trying not to choke on a sob in his throat.

 

_I didn’t remember Yoko arriving, but I felt her hand on my arm and suddenly, I didn’t want her around. I didn’t want her hand there. I wanted Paul._

He went to a store of records, old vinyls, their old recordings, and found that one. That one that he recorded backward on. That joke, that stupid bloody _joke_ that wasn’t a joke anymore.

 

_Paul’s hand. Not hers._

The record in his hand felt cold. Cold, so cold, so cold like Paul was, like he shouldn’t be, like he shouldn’t be. “It should’ve been _me_.” His voice was thick with hurt, and pain, and sobs. Thick, chest shaking, paralyzing sobs that wracked his chest and made him stop and hiccup and bite his tongue.

 

_I remember pulling away from her. She wasn’t Paul. She could never be my Paul._

The record hit the wall at astonishing speed, snapping against the hard stone. Maybe, if he could just get rid of the joke, then Paul would be alright. It wouldn’t be true.

 

_No one could ever be my Paul. And he was gone._

====

 

When Ringo and George came back into the studio, they found the place a mess. Microphones were on the floor, record splinters scattered across the hard, cold stone. The booth window was broken, shattered when a shoe had impacted it, George discovered after investigation. Buckets of equipment – plugs, extra string, picks – had been over turned and scattered. Ringo stepped carefully into the room, trying not to crunch on any glass or fragile, useful equipment.

 

_It was a joke. And he’s gone._

 

“John?” The voice was tentative, searching. Ringo was searching, and eventually, he found the subject of his calling.

 

_He’s gone. It’s all over. Gone. Done._

John was in the booth itself, curled up in a ball, sobbing violently. His hands were bleeding, and he had them wrapped around his legs. Ringo knelt by him, trying to comfort him. George picked up a bit of a shattered record and recognized the label.

 

_I should have stopped him._

“Rich.” George passed him the label. Ringo recognized it too, and the pair shared a glance at John.

 

_It should be me that was dead, not him. It’s my fault._

“John.” George sat by him, not touching him, knowing touch might set him off. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew what he was trying to get across was getting across. He was there for John.

 

“What did he say to you, John?” Ringo asked, sitting at John’s other side.

 

_It’s my fault, and he still said he loved me._

“I should be the dead one.”

_And he still loves me._


End file.
